Why?
by Lollipopswilltakeover
Summary: Sherlock had jumped. It was that simple, it really was. Then why did John feel like there was a piece missing, something entirely wrong? Something he didn't know. Why did he jump? Why did he do it at all? Why? Why is the question no one has an answer to.


_"WHY?" _The cry ripped through London, being heard throughout. It was filled with pain and distress, as one might gather when 'why' is screamed. Once more, "WHY?" was sent throughout the air, echoing in alley ways and being whisked along the streets. Anyone who heard above the noises of the city winced, the pain clear.

The person who had screamed was none other than Doctor John Watson. He looked like the average London man nearing his thirties, with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes. Along with most people in England, he was pale but not extremely so. Dr. Watson used to carry a cane for a psychosomatic limp he had gained from the war in Afghanistan. He didn't need it anymore. On the outside, well, usually, he looked like a very normal man. No one would guess that he assisted Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.

Had assisted, now. Past tense, for Sherlock had committed suicide just a day ago. John was now in an alley by Baker Street, not really wanting to stray far from the comfort of Mrs. Hudson and his home. But he just couldn't stay in there a moment longer. Sherlock was everywhere. On the couch, on _his_ computer, Hell, he was even on the wall. 'Course he had to go and shoot at it. Everything in the apartment had Sherlock's personal touch, from the yellow smiley face and bullet marks in the wall to the scratches on the table. And John needed a breather from it all.

John kicked the wall, but it was only half-hearted. He had gotten his anger out, and all that was left now was the aching sadness that gnawed at his heart and destroyed him from inside out. How could he have done it? Why? Why had he done it?

He thought he knew why. It was one of the first times someone had warned him about Sherlock. 'And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing 'round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.' That was what Donovan had said. That he was a psychopath.

When she had come with Lestrade in response to the news to their flat, fury had just overwhelmed him. "Are you happy now?" he had said, the tears still dripping, dripping down his face. "You said we would be standing around a body that Sherlock had put there. Well, here we are. Are you happy now?" He hadn't bothered himself with her reaction, just the memory of his friend, broken on the ground. The blood wetting his hair and face, dripping down onto the sidewalk.

That had been just yesterday. Had it really been that long? Almost a full 24 hours without Sherlock living and breathing among them. How had it been that long? John felt sick. He couldn't get enough air in, yet he couldn't get anything out. John needed to escape his mind.

He left the alley and walked himself back to 221B, a certain dejectedness in his steps. Reporters crowded the doorway, all attempted to get a picture of his grieving family (well, brother) and friends. Well, not exactly friends, per say. Common people Sherlock saw almost daily. Sherlock had said himself he didn't have friends. Plain and simple. John didn't want to think about what Sherlock had said _after_ that, though.

John elbowed his way though the door with his collar turned up against his neck to hide his face, or part of it. He managed to get through the door without a serious mob of reporters trying to take pictures of him. Perhaps it was because they didn't recognize him; Perhaps it was because they didn't want to bother him; Or perhaps it was because he had held his gun in his hand with white knuckles. No one dared to talk to him.

He noticed Mycroft standing awkwardly among the crying Mrs. Hudson and blood-shot-eyed Lestrade. He barely held his anger down. John hadn't been able to tell Sherlock of his brother's betrayal. If it hadn't been for the fact Mycroft was so close to Ms. Hudson, he might have punched him in the face... Or dropped him out a window repeatedly. Just like Sherlock had to the man who had hurt Mrs. HUdson. A shudder of pain went through him at the though.

There wasn't as many people there now, possibly because they couldn't stand being in Sherlock's lair for too long. After all, there WERE bullet holes in the wall. Simply Sherlock. Probably made them feel uncomfortable. He swiftly pulled Lestrade aside. He had to talk to him, to see if this made any sense to him either. Mycroft didn't even meet his gaze, just kept talking to Mrs. Hudson aimlessly.

"This doesn't seem right." John didn't waste any time getting to what needed to be said. Forget saying 'hellos' and 'how are you holding ups'? So, he skipped the useless crap, as Sherlock might've said, and got straight to it. Something wasn't right.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "How so? Sherlock jumped off the roof. What else is there?" Lestrade was desperately trying to stay together. He didn't want to focus on the suicide for too long. He needed something clean cut, simple. But it was never clean cut with Sherlock.

"Sherlock had access to guns, medicines, and deadly chemicals. This isn't like him," John replied simply. When Lestrade didn't say anything, he sighed and went on. "He could've done it any other way, in fact, if he had done it any other way we wouldn't be having this conversation now. It's not like Sherlock, his... Suicide. He would've done anything else. The man risked his life on a daily basis. What was it, the first day I met him? He was playing a game with a mad man, gambling lives. And he would've done it had the other man not been shot." John swallowed, remembering that day. He had killed someone to save Sherlock. A faint smile crossed his face, just for a moment, before resuming the serious face. "This isn't Sherlock. Not at all."

"Well, we thought that Sherlock wasn't suicidal, so what do we know? No one knows him, John. Don't you get that? I've known him for 6 years now. And I still can't tell you anything about him. He is a mystery, a mystery that will go unsolved. No one can crack Sherlock, and if they think they have they're delusional. Sherlock maybe a genius, but he was just a man. And maybe after being above everyone for so long, he just wanted to be average."

"Sherlock never wanted to be average. Look at his decorating skills, honestly!" John exclaimed. "He called everyone an idiot at least 7 times a day, more if you were on his nerves or simply thinking too loud."

"Maybe after being above average and different for so long, he wanted to be average. He couldn't be average, Sherlock wasn't average. But in death, in the way he died, he controlled that. He wanted to die, and he wanted to die in a more common way." Greg seemed very tired in that moment, as if he had aged 30 years since Sherlock had died.

"He never said that. He never wanted to be average. Sherlock wouldn't have done this. There's more to it!" John cried, frustrated. Greg just didn't want to see. Or maybe he saw it, and didn't want to. He wanted Sherlock to be alive, of course, but after mourning him it would hurt too much.

"Sherlock did do it, John. What else can there be? He jumped and landed on the cold cement. You saw him, you saw him, John. You know he's dead. You saw the wound, the blood. He's dead, John. Dead. And Sherlock committed suicide, that's not like him either! He was being different, John. We will never know why he did it. So what's the point? What's the point in thinking about if it was like Sherlock or not? Because none of this is him. But it's not going to bring him back, John. Nothing will. Non of this is like Sherlock at all, and the sooner you come to terms with that the sooner you can move on," Greg seemed to be trying to convince himself as well as John.

"But it's not Sherlock." John's voice was small.

Greg sighed, rubbing his temple. "Sherlock is someone we have never really known. So maybe it was like him, maybe it wasn't. He was different, John. Always had. So maybe he just wanted to go out in a common way, is that so wrong? Why is it wrong, John?" Greg probably would've shouted had it not been for the sniveling Mrs. Hudson in the room over and John's small voice earlier.

But that didn't stop John. He had had enough. It wasn't right, something about it all wasn't right. And he would make them see, he would make them all see. He would clear Sherlock's name if it was the last thing he did. Because Sherlock wasn't the man who had jumped. No, Sherlock was the man who would've investigated the jump, who would've done anything else. Anything.

"BECAUSE HE WAS SHERLOCK, GODDAMMIT!" John roared. His hands were in fists and tears leaked down his face. Everyone looked at him, shocked. John's gaze was fixed on the carpet, the tears easily sliding off his cheeks. "Because he was Sherlock, Greg. And Sherlock would never jump."

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**I do not own Sherlock. **

**Okay, to me, if Sherlock committed suicide, it wouldn't be by jumping. It's not like him in any way, shape, or form. So, what would have John done about that? I hope you enjoyed it, I spent a good amount of time on it. :) Wishing you all well!**


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